


He Won't Be Worried Long

by ChasingRabbits



Series: Rock 'n' Roll Queer Bar [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rimming, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRabbits/pseuds/ChasingRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Thanksgiving That Will Live in Infamy leaves Dean and Castiel a little worse for the wear. Castiel supposes he should have expected the episode to trigger some of his more deeply-rooted issues.</p><p>What he did not expect to find was a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Won't Be Worried Long

**Author's Note:**

> "Everything is fucked up,  
> its all coming down,  
> it takes a worried man  
> to sing a worried song"
> 
> It Takes A Worried Man - DEVO
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: Portrayals of severe anxiety and panic attacks, and some depressive thoughts/behaviors

Ellen and Jo, for whatever reason, are really into Christmas, in a way that Castiel has never before witnessed outside of a deeply religious family.

Right after they return from the Thanksgiving that will forever live in infamy, Castiel and Dean are dragged immediately into decorating and shopping.

Castiel could care less about Christmas, to be perfectly honest, for various reasons, but Dean enjoys the holidays. It’s easier to enjoy something when someone you love enjoys it.

This year Dean’s heart just isn’t in it.

Last year, Dean joined in decorating the tree, joined in Jo’s only slightly ironic enjoyment of ugly Christmas sweaters, and guzzled nearly all the eggnog Ellen could make.

This year he’s tense, grumpy.

Castiel knows it’s because he didn’t get time to recover from Thanksgiving.   

He watches as Dean dices up an onion for dinner, nearly pitching forward several times to keep him from cutting his fingertips off, but Dean is quite skilled with a knife and manages to come out of the hack job clean.

Dean does the same with a clove of garlic and slides it and the onions into a pot.

He checks something in the fridge.

It’s not there.

He slams the door and yells, “Fuck!”

“Dean, is there anything I can do?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Dean rests his forehead against the fridge door. “Thanks.”

It’s that hollow, empty thanks that suggests more effort would be appreciated, but knows that no amount of effort from anyone can make better whatever is going on.

It’s maddening, and it makes Castiel feel as useless as he’s ever felt.

That night, they’re halfway through White Christmas (despite the fact that it’s not even December yet), slotted together in the recliner, both zoning out on the movie while Ellen and Jo watch it with the kind of rapture most reserve for the Grand Canyon.

Castiel doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until Dean wraps a hand around his wrist and tugs.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “You’re tearin’ these puppies up.”

Castiel looks down and sees that, yes, he has pretty much destroyed his fingernails and the skin around them. He sees this and realizes, oh, his fingers hurt.

“Sorry,” Cas mutters and pulls them back against his chest.

“I wasn’t lookin’ for an apology,” Dean sets his beer down on the floor and grabs Castiel’s hands in his. One by one he presses kisses to his frayed, nubby fingernails.

“Dean,” he murmurs, but cuts himself short when Dean’s lips flutter lightly against his pulse in his neck. There’s booze on his breath, but it’s the first indication he’s gotten all day that Dean isn’t pissed at him.

That night, it’s Dean’s mouth that pulls him back down into reality. It’s how Dean lets Cas open him up slowly, lets him pour all of his nervous energy into unwinding him like a tangle of twine.

Not every night can be like that, though.

Some nights Castiel finds himself too wound up even to pretend to sleep. Dean will find him on the computer at dawn, reading articles, playing Tetris, more than likely chewing on his fingers until they bleed.

Some nights, Castiel forgoes the charade altogether and just stays up to clean, to watch TV, to work on that one story he started writing in his sophomore year of college that, hey, he could actually get around to working on now that his body seems to be repellent to sleep.

Time stretches on, both dragging and speeding by faster than Castiel can manage to comprehend. He drops more weight; his stomach is so high up in his throat these days that it’s impossible to choke anything down.  His skin gets ashen, his hair goes greasy and lank.

Every single muscle in his body cries out for sleep.

But he can’t. He can’t fucking sleep and it’s maddening.

When he lies down beside Dean, all he can think about is how royally he’s managed to fuck everything up. He went from salutatorian of his senior class, upstanding member of Key Club and academic decathlete to college flunk-out, object of his family’s disdain, and now increasingly anxious bar waiter.

At twenty-four, he was supposed to be in grad school. He should be elbow-deep in research, poking and prodding his thesis until he could build off of it and finally, finally reap the benefits of all that time spent cramming useless information into his head.

Useless, fascinating information.

And now he’s here.

His vision of the future hasn’t been clear since he met Dean, since he finally realized that he wasn’t going to do what he’d planned on doing. At least back then a vaguely fuzzy light always illuminated the fifty feet of road ahead.

Now he feels like he’s driving blind.

Castiel looks down at the time and date on the corner of his computer screen.

Wait a second.

4:34 AM, December 25th.

He’s twenty-five, then, not twenty-four.

That’s somehow even worse.

His game of Tetris on the screen asks if he’d like to continue playing, but there’s something about vegging out on his computer at four in the morning on his birthday, with only the lights of the Christmas tree to keep him company, that is just plain disheartening.

As if on cue, Dean steps out of the hallway, rubbing his eyes at the warm light from the tree. He leans against the doorway and sighs.

“Quarter of a century,” he yawns. “How’s it feel?”

“Precisely as it felt to be any other age,” Castiel replies, chewing on the string of his hoodie, “Lackluster.”

Dean groans, so obviously tired, so obviously done with Castiel’s inability to function properly. Castiel sinks lower into the couch, even though Dean comes over to him and places the laptop on the coffee table in front of them. He wraps his arms around Castiel and lays a trail of kisses down his jaw and his neck.

“Come to bed,” rumbles low and soft in his ear.

“I can’t sleep,” Castiel mutters. The lights on the Christmas tree follow Castiel’s line of vision, little multicolored comet trails blazing behind them. He can feel blood pump through every artery, every vein, pounding even though everything in his body is running on empty.

Dean groans and rests his forehead in the crook of Castiel’s neck.

“Ellen’s got some Valium,” he suggests. “Pop a couple of those, sack out for a while… You could use the sleep.”

“I know,” Castiel snaps, and then sighs a second later. “Sorry. I’m really tired.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dean’s grip tightens on him. “Cas, please. You’re scarin’ the shit outta me.”  

Castiel’s eyes burn at that and he pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Ah, shit,” Dean mutters and pets a hand over Castiel’s hair. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m fuckin’ worried about you, Cas.”

He kisses Cas’ temple.

“If I get you some Valium, will you take it?”

Castiel nods and takes a shaky breath. Even if it kills him, he’s beginning to think he might be okay with that.

“Hold tight, okay?”

Castiel nods again, and in a flash Dean is back, pressing two pills and a mug into his hand.

Castiel pops them back and swallows a mouthful of water.

“Can we go in the bedroom?” Dean asks not a second after.

Castiel whines.

“Cas,” Dean warns.

Castiel buries his face in his knees again, refusing to move. If he gets up and gets in bed, he’ll only be dooming himself to a hot twisted mess of blankets and Dean’s snoring.

“Okay, champ,” Dean sighs, and then hooks an arm around Castiel’s back and under his knees.

“No,” Castiel says quickly, “Dean, no!”

But Dean hoists him up anyway and carries him into the bedroom, even though Cas won’t stop fidgeting.

Dean plops him down on the bed and climbs over him, boxing him in with his limbs.

“Dean, let me up,” Castiel demands.

“No,” Dean scowls. “You’re pissing me right the fuck off.”

“I don’t care!” Castiel tries to sock him in the shoulder, but he’s tired and Dean put him down way too fast and he misses.

By a lot.

“Fuck, man,” Dean rests their foreheads together. “What is going on with you lately?”

“Nothing is right,” is all Cas can say, because no, nothing is right.

Nothing is right.

He can’t sleep, but he can’t do anything else either without fucking up. There isn’t enough sex, or kisses, or hard-headed Dean Winchesters in the world to make that okay.

But he hasn’t stopped saying it. He just keeps trying to wriggle out from under Dean and repeating, “Nothing is right nothing is right nothing is right”.

He loses steam quickly, his arms dropping down to his sides and his legs no longer kicking. Dean blurs in and out of his field of vision.

“Do-don’t think’m not… not pissed about this.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Dean nods, that stupid shit-eating grin on his face. Except this warm, sleepy feeling spreads rapidly through him and he can’t be annoyed.

“That’s what I thought,” Dean’s face isn’t smug, though, as the words might suggest. In place of that stupidly charming smile is big worried eyes and Dean’s necklace swinging back and forth on his neck.

That’s the last of what Castiel remembers until he wakes.

**oo**

It’s early noon by the looks of the light streaming in through the window. Castiel rolls over to see a little plate of Christmas cookies and a glass of water. He pushes himself up on his elbows and lets out a long sigh.

He should get up.

With a tremendous amount of effort, Cas rolls over and off the bed, stuffing his hands into his sweater pockets before he ambles out of the bedroom.

“Well, there he is!” Ellen hums cheerfully from where she pokes at the fireplace. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Castiel grabs the back of his neck and accepts Ellen’s arms around him, though every instinct tells him to pull away.

“Goodness gracious, baby,” she chides, “you had Dean worried to hell and back this morning.”

Castiel looks over at the Christmas presents arranged neatly around the tree, not a single one out of place from the night before.

“Dean and Jo were very insistent on waiting for you,” Ellen comments lightly, at which Castiel cocks a skeptical brow.

“You made them, didn’t you?”

“Damn straight, I did,” she nods.  “Now, get your butt settled and let’s get some breakfast in you.”

Castiel feels his shoulders shrug up to his ears at the thought of food, but Ellen shoots him a look that makes him nod in agreement.

She pushes a cup of—this is not coffee.

“Is this tea?” he asks.

“Yup,” Ellen nods. “Orange spice. Smells kinda Christmasy, don’t it?”

“Indeed,” Castiel sets the mug aside. “May I have some coffee?”

“Darlin’, the way you been puttin’ away coffee lately,” she shakes her head as she lays out a couple of sopping wet slices of French toast on the griddle. “I’m surprised you’re not already halfway to the moon.”

“So, you’re cutting off my coffee supply,” Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Honey, you can do whatever you want, but I guarantee you’re gonna feel a whole lot better if you can the coffee,” she flips the French toast. It smells amazing, and suddenly Castiel feels a brief quake of hunger.

Dean and Jo enter from outside, both bundled up in their winter duds, pink-faced and covered in big patches of wet. If Dean wants to address last night, he’s not going to do it now. Instead, he comes over to Cas and offers him a soft, warming kiss. His nose is cold squashed against Castiel’s cheek, but for whatever reason that makes him hold on tighter.

“What were you two doing out there?” asks Castiel when they finally part.

“Well, we can’t open presents,” Jo folds her arms over her chest. “So we made a snowman.”  

“That was remarkably productive,” Castiel notes.

Dean kisses him again, and this time when they break he doesn’t pull away. He hangs on tight as Jo pulls off her mittens and pats Cas on the shoulder, smiling, “Happy birthday, nerd.”

“Thank you, Jo,” Cas gives her a tired smile in response.

“Well, go sit on the couch and let’s get the birthday boy some presents to open up,” Ellen shoos them all out of the kitchen.

Castiel sits in the center of the couch with Dean at a reasonable distance from him—close enough that Castiel can still feel the heat rolling off of him, but far enough that he doesn’t feel suffocated by it.

He appreciates it.

He doesn’t appreciate the button that Jo pins to his shirt that reads “Birthday Bitch” as much, but it’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

“Okay, this one first,” Jo sets a gift in his lap. Castiel’s lips quirk up in a smile, and he tears carefully into the birthday wrapping paper.

It was strange, the first Christmas he’d had here. At home, his birthday usually garnered one or two more gifts, and a cake. His family isn’t strictly religious, but Christmas seemed to be too sacred a holiday to break for Castiel’s birthday.

He’d never gotten a birthday present with birthday wrapping paper on it before he met Dean.

The gift in question is a mug, with a Tetris game on the side.

“It changes with the heat,” Jo explains, a big cheeky grin on her face.

“Thank you, Jo,” Cas affords another small smile at this. It is quite sweet, and he has been seeing Tetris blocks everywhere these days.

Dean’s gift is next. He assumes he’ll be getting something a little less family-friendly later. What he unwraps here is a sweater.

A very soft, very expensive-feeling navy blue sweater.

“Is this cashmere?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “I thought you might like it.”

“I love it, it’s just,” cashmere sweaters are expensive.  And they just poured a sizable amount of money into buying a car. And they’re trying to save up to move out of Ellen’s place.

And there are so many other things one could do with a hundred dollars than spend it on a sweater.

Dean’s not even the sweater-giving type.

At a loss for words, Castiel shakes himself out of it and leans over to give Dean a kiss.

“Thank you,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Dean smiles back.

“Move that aside,” Ellen bids. “I got some birthday French toast comin’ in.”

Castiel can’t say why this causes a dull ache in his chest, or why it’s suddenly so hard to breathe. He swallows it back, though, and accepts the plate from Ellen.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Castiel crosses his legs up on the couch. “You have gifts to open too.”

Jo starts to distribute the gifts from under the tree as Castiel eats and watches, silent. It’s never a big exchange between the four of them, and as usual it’s over quickly. They settle easily into a Christmas movie marathon afterward.

Dean pulls Castiel in against him, letting him lie across his lap as It’s a Wonderful Life plays on the TV.

Dean strokes Castiel’s hair, his shoulder, his arm. As lovely as Dean’s hands are on him, the touch just makes him feel hot and squirmy and not at all like himself.

Not that he knows what exactly it is to feel like himself anymore.

“I have to get up,” Castiel insists very suddenly. He offers no other explanation, because, quite frankly, he doesn’t have one. He just can’t be there on the couch, in the house anymore. He pulls on his boots beside the door and goes, down the walk and past the lumpy snowman that wears Jo’s matching red-and-green scarf and hat.

Old, icy snow crunches under Castiel’s boots. He probably should have thought twice about leaving the house without a coat at least, but the bite feels good on his skin.  It pulls him out of himself, grounds him back in reality, reminds him that the sting in his nose and the chill on his face is what’s here, happening right now.

For some reason, it’s the only thing that has comforted him in weeks.

“Cas!” he hears Dean call after him. Castiel turns and sees Dean running toward him down the sidewalk.

“Dean, you’re not wearing shoes!” he says much too loudly. His voice goes hoarse at the very end as Dean slows to a walk before him.

“Very observant,” he nods. “What the hell is with you?”

“I… don’t know,” Castiel admits, folding his arms over his chest. “Dean, believe me, if I knew—”

He cuts himself off and sags under this massive, invisible Sisyphus on his shoulders.

“Cas,” Dean braces his hands on his hips. “Whatever it is, just come back inside. We can work it out. We’ll… we’ll sit up and talk all night if we have to.”  

Castiel must narrow his eyes, because Dean looks away and lets out a long white puff of breath.

“Man, don’t,” he sighs.

“You want to talk?” Castiel simply asks.

“No, I don’t wanna talk!” Dean exclaims, “I wanna go back inside, and I want you to come with me!”

“Dean, I can’t go back inside,” Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t, I have to be out, if I go back inside I’m—“ his voice breaks “—I’m… I don’t know what.”

He can’t look as Dean scrubs his face with his hands. He can’t let himself feel any worse, or it just might get so massive it super novas, leaving behind nothing but a six-foot tall, light-sucking, Castiel-sized region of spacetime.

“Look, I’m really friggin’ worried about you, okay?” Dean jumps up and down, his teeth clattering. “Fuck! I just want you to feel better and you’re not, and it’s pissin’ me off and stressing me out, ‘cause I don’t like it when you’re upset!”

“You think I’m enjoying what’s been happening?” Castiel challenges.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Dean groans. “I don’t know how to help, okay? I’m shitty at this, you know that. I don’t know what I can do except make you dinner a-and get you nice stuff and, y’kn-now,” he shrugs. “Give you head whenever you want it.”

“You do that regardless,” Castiel frowns and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off, Cas!” Dean stomps his foot. His socks are soaked completely.

That flips a switch somewhere up in Castiel’s brain. Dean’s socks are wet because of him, and he’s mad and pissed off because of him and nothing is right. As much as this makes Castiel want to kick at the snow and maybe punch the Millers’ stupid Yorkshire terrier mailbox right off its post, he doesn’t.

Like riding a bike, like doing a cartwheel, like sitting down at the piano after years upon years and still being able to play your favorite song, something in his programming reboots and he sighs.

“Well, take your socks off,” he mutters and offers his arm for balance when Dean bends to fulfill the command. Castiel takes them from him and walks gingerly back to the house with him.

Inside there’s a rush of harsh warmth against his skin, and Ellen and Jo both murmuring to themselves by the fireplace.

“Aw, hell,” Ellen sighs when she sees Dean’s bare feet.

“I get it, I’m a fucking idiot,” Dean scowls and sits on the couch. For once, Castiel can actually feel the chill on his skin.

“You’re not an idiot,” Ellen sighs. “Just a fool. There’s a difference. I’ll get ya a fresh pair outta the dryer.”

The socks Ellen returns with are a thick pair that Dean bought especially for the particularly cold winter.

They return to their movie marathon. Then, to round out the night, they eat a meal that’s far too heavy, which, when paired with eggnog and a lot of birthday cake, lulls both Castiel and Dean right to sleep much earlier than intended.

It wasn’t the best birthday, and even as Castiel finds himself drifting to sleep he realizes that all those feelings he’d had outside, standing talking to a frozen-toed Dean, haven’t vanished.

They’re always there, constantly pecking and poking at him.  Then he wonders if there are some people out there that don’t know what it’s like to have fear constantly niggling at them in the backs of their mind.

He wonders if there are people who have been able to escape the nasty, looming, ever-present vultures that circle over Castiel on a daily basis, swooping down and feasting on all in him that is weak, afraid, and helpless.

**oo**

_“Dude, time’zit? …What’s up?”_

_“Nothing. Nightmare.”_

_“… Clowns, or midgets?”_

_“Vultures.”_

**oo**

It’s two days before New Year’s Eve that Dean offers to drive Balthazar’s drunk ass back home.

It’s two days before New Year’s Eve that Ellen is out with Jo on a mother-daughter date.

It’s two days before New Year’s Eve that Meg’s shift ended early, leaving no one else to close up shop except Castiel.

And Crowley, he realizes, when he hears the bell on the front door tinkle.

“Good evening, darling,” Crowley offers a smug smile as he strolls past Castiel, who rubs down the counter with a rag. “Don’t mind me, just here to have a look at the books, see how you kids are doing…”

He catches Castiel’s inability to stop swiping the same spot and pauses, raising an eyebrow.

“How are you doing, Castiel?” he asks.

He’s the only person who ever uses Cas’ full name anymore.

“Fine,” he supplies quickly.

“If it gets us to the truth any faster, rest assured I don’t give a witch’s tit about your answer, whatever it may be.”

This makes Castiel pause for only one reason, “Was that a mixed metaphor?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, done with the conversation and his attempt to be sympathetic.

Castiel can’t bother himself with that, though, he has to clean. He has to get everything clean because he can’t do much, but damn it he can clean all this up and get this bar looking like new.  

He can feel his heart rate pick up as he abandons the bar top for the broom, but he ignores it. There’s so much crap on this floor, it’s almost embarrassing.

He makes it through about half of the front room when it first hits, this unbelievably tight feeling in his chest that sends a pulse of adrenaline through his core. Castiel rights himself, aligning his spine and letting his lungs fill to capacity.

Except that wasn’t a full breath.

The tightness has turned to a weight,

a hippopotamic mass of who-knows-what

that stops him in his tracks

and has him unable

to take

a full

breath.

A cold sweat breaks out on his skin, and somewhere in the distance he hears the broom clatter to the floor.

He can’t—

He can’t breathe.

Every time he tries there’s this bolt of pain that forks out from his chest and down his arms.

This is a heart attack.

This is his heart attack.

This is the way he’s going to go out, not with a bang but a whimper.

His chest heaves with every breath he attempts to take, hands shake so intensely that when he grabs for a stool he only knocks that over too. He reaches to steady himself on the bar, but he misses and stumbles to the side, into a thick figure.

“Steady, Castiel,” he hears Crowley instruct.

Castiel shakes his head.

“I’m having—a heart attack.”

“No, you’re not, you’re having a panic attack,” Crowley explains very plainly as he guides Castiel to a nearby table. He pulls a chair down off of the table and has Castiel sit in it.

A panic attack.

He folds over and puts his face to his knees, because that’s the only thing that feels infinitesimally better. He can’t look up, can’t move from this position. If he looks up he could crush something in his neck or set something off and it could kill him.

His teeth clatter, his muscles spasm, the entire world seems to tilt on its axis, out of alignment, out of its harmonious universal rhythm.

“Deep breaths, Castiel,” Crowley pats him on the shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Castiel snaps back. He knows it was meant to be comforting, but for whatever reason it sets weevils loose to burrow under his skin.

He’s going to die in the Roadhouse with nobody but Crowley to call the paramedics.

And why hasn’t he called the paramedics yet?

Castiel is dying and Crowley’s only advice is deep breaths.

His chest constricts, and suddenly his panicked pants have turned into dry, choking sobs.

And there’s no stopping it.

He’s not sure how long this part of it lasts, but when it finally subsides, he finds himself breathing a little more evenly.

He takes a deep breath.

That’s a full one.

That feels much better.

Still trembling, Castiel unfolds himself and wipes up his tears with his sleeve. Crowley comes back into view with a glass of water, which he sets on the table in front of Castiel before taking a seat across from him.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

No, Castiel thinks, he’s the most Not-All-Right he’s been in a long while, since high school. Absently, his fingers trace over his thighs, his jeans covering the macabre ladder of thin white scars that climb up his leg.

“What’s happening to me?” he buries his face in his hands.

“I take it you’ve never had a panic attack before,” Crowley folds his arms over his chest. “Not uncommon for young people these days.”

Castiel groans.

“I spend most of my time interacting with people not much younger than yourself,” Crowley continues. “I’ve seen more panic attacks than I care to remember. Have some water, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Castiel shakes his head.

“Come now, Castiel,” Crowley sighs. “Of course you’ll vomit if you keep upsetting yourself.”

Castiel doesn’t reply, just stares at a spot on the wall until his nausea subsides. He looks over at the glass of water on the table and takes it, tipping back a long, cool sip.

“How long has that been happening?” Crowley finally asks.

“That’s never happened to me before,” Castiel shakes his head.

“You’ve never suspected you might have an issue with anxiety?” Crowley kicks his feet up onto the table. “There’s lack of self-awareness, and then there’s outright denial.”

Castiel hangs his head, groaning.

That seems to be all he can do.

“And I imagine having a partner with the emotional intelligence of a salted slug does nothing to quell your anxieties,” Crowley nods in understanding. “Does anything help, when you get like this?”

Castiel frowns.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks.

“It’s actually quite laborious, if you must know,” says Crowley, “I would much rather be an insufferable twat, but as that would help neither of us in this situation, and as I happen to believe that you’re not as unbearable as I’d initially expected, yes, this would suggest that I am in fact being… nice.”

He kicks his feet back down and leans forward, “Now, for the second time, is there anything that helps you when you get like this?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“No medications?”

Again, Castiel shakes his head.

Crowley gives him that assessing look, that one that Dean would and has categorized as pompous.

“Do you want help?”

Castiel frowns and cocks his head.

What an absurd question.

“Very well,” Crowley decides suddenly, reaching into his back pocket for that tiny black notebook he always keeps on hand. “Pay attention because I do not do this for everyone.”

He scrawls something out on a piece of paper and tears it out of the notebook, offering it to Castiel.

“A former student of mine,” he explains. “Actually very similar to you, as I now realize. Severe anxiety disorder, had to drop out of school when it all became too much, just shy of completing his doctorate. Brilliant young man, if a little flighty.”

Castiel looks down at the phone number on the paper.

“Ask for Andy,” Crowley instructs. “And be sure to tell him that you’re one of the Special Children, if in fact you do want his help.”

“What is the nature of this help?” Castiel finds himself asking.

“Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” Crowley’s smugness returns as he stands. “Come on, love, I’ll take you home.”

He offers Castiel a hand and pulls him up.

Crowley, not surprisingly, drives a sleek black BMW. He doesn’t listen to music as he drives, doesn’t speak to or even look at Castiel.

Castiel is grateful, as he doesn’t know that he’d say much of anything anyway.

Once they’re at the house, Castiel gets out of the car with a quick ‘thanks’, and turns back when he hears Crowley call after him.

They make eye contact, which Castiel thinks should make him uncomfortable.

“Get yourself sorted before you go back to work,” Crowley says. “I’ll speak to Ellen; Meg can cover your shifts.”

Castiel goes pink at the very thought and watches silently as Crowley drives away.

He comes to the sudden realization that his head hurts very, very badly.  

The front room is dark when he walks in, though he can definitely hear Dean rustling around in their room down the hall. He’s talking to someone, it sounds like, and as Castiel gets closer he can just make it out.

“—don’t know, he won’t talk to me.”

A beat.

“Yeah, I am,” Dean sighs.

“… really? Dude, you’re fucking awesome. Thank you. Thank you so much… yeah, will do. See you soon.”

Cas waits until he’s sure Dean has hung up the phone before he comes in. Rightly, Dean startles.

“I thought I was picking you up,” he says.

“So did I,” Castiel sighs and sits on the bed. “Crowley brought me home.”

Castiel can’t ignore the way Dean stiffens out of the corner of his eye.

Crowley is far from Castiel’s favorite person, but Dean seems to be unable to stand him even in the smallest increments.

“I had a panic attack, Dean,” says Castiel, and Dean immediately drops his pissy tough guy face.

“Fuck,” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “Are you okay?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Crowley gave me the number of someone who may be able to help,” he goes on, watching again as Dean’s jaw sets and his arms go taut.

“A doctor?” asks Dean, tossing his phone onto the bed right beside Cas.

“Not sure,” Castiel admits. “But I think I’ll call him in the morning.”

Dean sighs and looks up at the ceiling, but seems to vaguely understand there’s not much he can do for the situation.

Beside him, the phone buzzes, and Castiel picks it up to hand to Dean.

Except, the text is from Gabriel.

“Booked a flight at six,” he reads, “Should be there about one pm your time.”

Castiel looks up and sees Dean with his hands clasped around the back of his neck.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admits softly.

“So you called Gabriel?” Cas raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean nods. “Because Gabriel at least gets through to you, okay? In ways that I obviously can’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks.

“You’re more relaxed around him,” Dean explains. “You’re way more of a tight ass than usual, lately.”

“Well, I certainly apologize if my anxieties have been cumbersome to you, Dean,” Castiel retorts, heart beating fast again. “I’ll try to be more mindful of you in the future.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Dean exclaims. “And don’t be a passive aggressive shit when I’m trying to help you. Seriously, Cas, this is what I’m talking about. It scares the flying fuck out of me. This isn’t you.”

“Oh?” Cas pats himself. “Strange, because it feels like me. It thinks like me, it looks like me and sounds like me. So I have to conclude that yes, this is me. And I obviously belong in a sanitarium.”

“You do not,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Gabe helped you, you need Gabe.”

Castiel groans, because Dean is probably right.

Horrifying family reunion aside, Castiel has missed Gabriel. For a long time, there was no one on the planet he was closer to. But Dean is also obsessed with blind family loyalty enough so that Castiel has to wonder if he’s really doing this because Gabriel helps, or if he’s trying to salvage a relationship just for the sake of family.

He must have said that part out loud, because Dean shrugs and folds his arms, “Hey, blood is thicker than water.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “It absolutely is not, that is a misquotation. The real saying is the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. So, it’s precisely the opposite of what you’re trying to say.”

Dean goes silent at that, and then resolves to sit down beside Cas.

“Well, fuck me, then,” he figures. “I been livin’ a lie.”

“You and most everyone else,” Castiel massages his eyes.

“Maybe Gabe’s your family and your… whatever the hell that was,” Dean suggests. “A coven? Like witches?”

“Covenant,” Castiel corrects lightly. “It’s an agreement. Religiously, it refers to promises and pacts made between God and people. The Ten Commandments, for example. Now it generally just means any form of friendship or partnership.”

Dean nods, letting the information roll around in his mind.

“So, in our case,” Dean gestures between the two of them. “Come is thicker than blood.”

Castiel lets out a laugh despite himself, and bends forward to put his face in his knees.

“Can I touch you?” asks Dean.

Castiel nods, “A little bit.”

“Can I pet your hair?”

“Yes, you may,” Castiel affirms.

After a while he lets Dean pull him onto the bed, lets him wrap him up in his limbs, in warmth and affection and love. Dean passes out sometime after, nose pressed into Cas’ cheek, his hand curled softly over Cas’ heart.

He hates that he’s made Dean worry so much, hates that instead of focusing on helping Dean, he ended up focusing it right back on himself, like…

Oh, god.

Like mom.

Castiel closes his hand over Dean’s and takes a deep breath. That’s… he’s not his mom. He’s not his parents. He’s just upset is all, and now he’s made his upset more important than Dean’s. He’s taken up all the attention, all the energy that Dean should be using on himself.

Damn, he is his mom.

Castiel shakes his head.

No.

Andy’s phone number burns a hole in the pocket of his jeans, which by now Castiel is too settled to change out of. There’s no telling who this Andy is, or what being a “special child” means, but it better mean he’s able to help.

**oo**

“What?”

Castiel startles in his place on the couch, jolting the phone away from his ear.

“Hello, I’m looking for Andy,” Castiel states, sliding the phone number around between his fingers.

“Yeah, and who the hell is this?”

“My name is… Jimmy,” he shouldn’t give a stranger his real name, right? “I was told you might be able to help me.”

“Ha!” the young man barks into the receiver. “And who told you that?”

“I’m… one of the special children?” he offers. A long, winded sigh goes static in Castiel’s ear, and again he has to pull the phone away.

“Three o’clock,” the young man says. He promptly fires off an address before Castiel can even find anything to write with, so he has to text it to himself and hope that he remembered correctly.

Castiel hears the car roll up outside and immediately he shoots to his feet. He just saw Gabriel a handful of weeks ago; he can’t speak to why he’s feeling so antsy all of a sudden.

The front door opens and there he is, bag slung over his shoulder, dressed in what look to be clean clothes. He isn’t surrounded by his usual skunky cloud of smoke, either. Apparently he does know how to behave, at least when the threat of the TSA and imprisonment looms over him.

Gabriel looks at him, eyes flitting over him, assessing the damage. He cocks half a smile then and greets, “How ya doin’, kiddo?”

Castiel doesn’t need anything else. He comes forward and wraps Gabriel in a tight hug. There’s a sharp, smoky smell underneath that of drugstore shampoo and whatever perfume the passenger next to him had obviously been wearing.

“Whoa, buy a guy a drink first.”

“Shut up, Gabriel,” Castiel mutters into his arms, and for once Gabriel listens.

He returns the hug, clapping Castiel on the back a few times before he decides to stop squirming and just let it be.

When Castiel finally pulls away, he realizes that he’s crying. Not snot-nosed, chest-heaving crying, but enough that he has to wipe his face before he does anything else.

He sees Dean standing a couple feet behind them and moves then to hug him too.

And then a kiss.

“Oh, I see,” Gabriel nods. “I get a category one on my shoulder and he gets the smooches. That’s nice.”

“You want a kiss?” Dean opens his arms. “C’mon, bring it in for a kiss.”

Gabriel lets out a slightly dramatic little ‘huff’ and tosses his blonde hair, “The moment is gone.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean sighs. “I gotta go to work now, so we weren’t getting very far anyway, peaches.”

“Oh, I have to meet, uh,” Castiel clears his throat. “That guy.”

‘That guy’, Dean mouths, perplexed, and then brightens, “The one Crowley gave you?”

Castiel nods.

“Okay,” Gabe drops his bag. “So, I’ll go with you to meet the guy.”

“Awesome,” Dean purses his lips. “Guess I’ll just go see if Crowley’ll give me a late night ride too.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, “It’s two in the afternoon, Dean, and that’s not funny.”

“No, it’s disgusting,” Dean corrects. “And I’m not talking about what you do or don’t get up to with that pompous bag of dicks.”

“Castiel, you tart,” Gabriel mock gasps.

Castiel flips him off, and then explains, “Dean thinks that Crowley has a crush on me.”

“Goddamn it, don’t—talk about it,” Dean shakes out his head like a wet dog.

“And even if he did, what could possibly lead you to believe that I would do anything with him?”

And then, very seriously, Dean says, “Oh, like you’re not dying to be a doctor’s wife.”

There’s a slight pause before Gabriel busts up laughing, and Dean’s face breaks out into a smile.

Joking… of course that was a joke. Castiel doesn’t necessarily laugh, because he’d been fully prepared to clarify Crowley is a doctor of economics, but his chest does lighten up a little bit.

Gabriel has that effect on people, though, he always has. There’s just something about the spark in his eyes that makes his laughter infectious.

Perhaps Dean was right in asking him to come.

“It’s cool,” Dean grins. “I’ll have Jo come get me. And, uh. Let me know how the whole thing goes.”

“Of course.”

Dean ducks to peck him on the cheek.

“I love you, baby,” he murmurs low into Castiel’s ear.

He gives him a light swat on the ass, then winks at Gabriel before he waltzes into the other room to call Jo.

“Dean!” Castiel calls after him. “Keys.”

Dean tosses the keys without looking, and thankfully Castiel is able to catch them.

They’re in the car before either of them speaks again.

Castiel doesn’t have anything to say, though. Anything that comes up into his mind is foolish, idiotic, pathetic ramblings of someone who can’t keep the screws in his brain fastened tight.

“So,” Gabriel kicks his feet up on the dashboard, finally, “You wanna tell me why you haven’t answered any of my messages?”

“Not particularly,” Castiel shakes his head.

“I finally had to call Dean to see what the fuck was going on,” says Gabriel. “You didn’t even respond to my birthday message, dude. That’s fuckin’ cold.”

Castiel lets out a long sigh and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, I’m simply not feeling myself lately is all.”

“I’d tell you that you need to get laid, but we both know that’s not the problem,” says Gabriel. “Who’s this guy we’re going to see?”  

“I have no clue,” Castiel sighs. “But if he decides to murder us and sell our organs on the black market, something tells me I’m not going to be too disappointed.”

“Well, aren’t you just a ray of fucking sunshine…”

They arrive at the address. Like most of the houses around here, it’s small, and has an extensive front lawn that sits as well kept as the rest of the lawns surrounding. Castiel checks the address on his phone once again.

“This it?” asks Gabriel, and Castiel shrugs.

“I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Up the walkway and to the front door, where Castiel knocks and Gabriel, to be a pain in the ass, rings the doorbell.

“Hang the hell on, jesus!” they hear from inside.

Castiel checks his phone. Three o’clock, on the dot.

“Who is it?”

“It’s C—Jimmy,” Castiel replies, and Gabriel cocks an eyebrow. “We spoke earlier.”

A dowdy, pasty young man opens the door and asks, “Who’s he?”

Gabriel looks pointedly over at Castiel before turning back to the young man and introducing himself as “Jimmy’s brother, Dick.”

Castiel has to suppress an eye roll. The young man eyes them both warily, but finally settles. He looks at Castiel then and says, “Dig the hair.”

“Um, thanks,” Castiel replies and steps inside when the young man steps aside. “Are you Andy?”

“That’s me,” Andy locks the front door behind them and stuffs his hands in his sweater pockets. “So, you need a hook up?”

“Nah, he’s married,” replies Gabriel, bored by the conversation. He takes to examining the pictures hanging on the bright white wall.

“Ha-ha,” Andy nods, “Good one, Dick.”

Gabriel shrugs.

“What’s the nature of your problem?” asks Andy then. “Crowley doesn’t usually send me casual clients.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. Clients, what clients? Who would possibly be this man’s clientele?

“Are you a prostitute?” asks Castiel.

“What!” Andy laughs just as Gabriel chokes on his own tongue behind them. “No, man. I—Crowley didn’t tell you I sell pot?”

Gabriel perks up instantly.

“No, he failed to mention that,” Castiel sighs just as Gabriel butts back in, “What have you got?”

Andy raises his eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest.

“That all depends on what you need,” he says. “Crowley sends me people that I can help, like I said.”

“Anxiety,” Castiel replies quickly, snapping Andy’s attention back to him. “And panic attacks. They’re becoming quite cumbersome and I don’t know that I can go through my entire day buzzed out of my mind.”

Andy mulls over this information, sifting it back and forth through his head like he’s panning for gold.

“Okay, I think I’ve got something that can help you,” he says.

“What about me?” asks Gabriel. “I got a bad case of adulthood, you got anything for that?”

Andy huffs a laugh and nods, “Yeah, I think I can hook you up, man.”

He disappears behind a curtain of beads, and Castiel moves to sit down on the beanbag chair in the far corner of the living area.

“Okay, Cassie?”

“Oh, just going through the series of ill-advised decisions I’ve made that have lead me to this point in my life,” Castiel sighs.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “So you’re gonna smoke some weed to get through your life, big deal. You’re not killing anyone; if it makes you feel better, who cares?”

Castiel sighs again and stares up at the ceiling. He cares, he supposes.

“All right,” Gabriel shoves his hands in his pockets. “Aside from the stigma surrounding the issue—”

“And the illegality,” Castiel inserts.

“—what’s the fucking issue?” Gabriel asks.

Castiel looks back at him.

“Do you really have to ask?”

Andy reemerges from  behind the beads, carrying two ziplock baggies each filled with carefully measured amounts of weed. He first hands the baggie in his left hand to Castiel.

“Harlequin,” he explains. “High CBD, not so much get-high, makes you feel great. And for you?”

He tosses the other baggie to Gabriel.

“Amnesia Haze,” he says. “That shit’s nice.”

“Yeah?” Gabriel opens up the bag and inhales deeply.

Then he makes this unholy noise that Castiel can only classify as hedonistic and whoops out, “Oh, sweet mother of fuck. That’s fucking amazing.”

“Right?” Andy lets out a laugh. “One of my personal favorites. You guys need zigs or anything?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel nods. “Two packs.”

While Gabriel negotiates prices, Castiel opens up his own bag and takes a whiff. What Andy gave him smells earthy, Christmasy. It makes Castiel want to crawl inside the bag and take a nap.

“Jimmy, nice to meet you,” Andy extends his hand, pulling Castiel out of his zone.

“You too,” he nods back. “Um, what do I owe you?”

“Ah, I took care of it,” says Gabe. “Call it a late birthday present.”

Oh.

“Thank you,” Castiel hums.

“C’mon, kid,” Gabriel claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s get you home and get you high.”

Castiel drives back home, careful to look out for any policemen out on patrol. He keeps to the speed limit, stops fully where he’s supposed to, and after a while Gabriel shouts, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m driving!” Castiel exclaims.

“Yeah, like a fucking asswad!” Gabriel gripes.

“We have illegal drugs in the car, Gabriel,” Castiel explains. “I would love not to get pulled over and thrown in jail.”

“The only reason we’ll get pulled over is because you’re driving like an incontinent eighty-five year old.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Cas argues back.

It devolves from there, and by the time they get back home they’re at wet-willy, Charlie horse levels of maturity.

He can’t say what makes it so he can’t get out of the car once he parks it. He’s smoked before, he likes smoking, it’s just.

He can’t move.

“All right, let’s get this shit started,” Gabriel ruffles his hair. “What’s up, little buddy?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel frowns. There’s a whole host of feelings building up in his chest, and he doesn’t know what the hell to do with them. They just bubble up and froth over, shut up his throat and make him choke.

“Whoa,” Gabriel startles as tears form at the corners of Castiel’s eyes. “Hey, Cas… c’mon, what’s going on?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

He doesn’t quite realize he’s said this aloud until Gabriel lets out a sigh and kicks his feet up on the dashboard.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he speaks into his knees. “Shit’s just going down and you’re reacting. Everyone reacts differently, okay? It’s not your fault that this is what your brain does, and it’s not your fault that something that could really help you is, for whatever ungodly reason, is still illegal.”

He opens up one of the baggies, and then a pack of rolling papers. Castiel watches him intently, though he never pauses to ask about Gabriel’s process; he just watches as his brother pulls a joint into existence between his fingers.

They pass the joint back and forth between them. It’s… strange. It’s not a high, per se. His head doesn’t try to inflate and fly away, his hands don’t tingle and the world doesn’t light up.

He just feels… sort of good.

“Man, this shit’s weak,” Gabriel licks his fingertips and puts out the roach between them. “What do you think, you buzzed?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, “But I do feel better.”

Gabriel nods and rolls himself another joint, this time with the stuff from the other bag. It only occurs to him that there’s too much smoke in the car when he opens up the door and it all goes gushing out into the stiff, wintery air.

“You go on ahead, I got some business to attend to,” Gabriel shoos him.

“Don’t get caught,” Castiel just warns.

“You think I don’t know how to maintain?” Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. “Now go on, get the hell out of here.”

Castiel sighs and leaves the keys with Gabriel, head too strangely empty to do otherwise. He shuffles directly from the front door into his and Dean’s room, sliding in under the blankets and letting his eyes slip shut. He’s not sleepy, he just doesn’t quite want to do anything other than lie in bed.

Minutes march on by, and soon Castiel hears the door open and shut.

“Hey, kiddo, you got room in there?”

Castiel doesn’t have time to scoot over before Gabriel flops down and rolls into bed with him.

“You stink,” Castiel coughs.

“Right back atcha, nerd,” Gabriel quips and hugs Dean’s pillow to his face. “This smells like dude.”

“Because my dude-boyfriend sleeps there,” says Castiel, eyelids drooping once more.

“Double the dicks, double the dude smell,” Gabriel lets out a soft cheer, descending then into a fit of giggles.

“You are incredibly stoned,” Castiel chuckles back.

“As a kite,” Gabriel nods, and then loses any and all ability to even breathe through his laughter.

And then Castiel laughs too, even though he still doesn’t feel high.

He’s just happy.

He’s happy to have his brother here, happy to finally be able to feel happy again.

Sleep hits him like a ton of bricks right to the face. Castiel has never fallen asleep so quickly, and he hasn’t slept so soundly in ages. It’s a miracle that he even manages to stir when Dean gets home.

A wonderful, sexy miracle, Castiel determines, when he gets an eyeful of Dean’s ass as he undresses.

“Damn fine strip tease,” Castiel murmurs, just loud enough for Dean to hear. He startles and whips around.

“Dude, you scared the shit out of me,” he huffs and pulls a pair of sweats up over his naked legs. Castiel sits up and dissolves into a yawn. Gabriel is out cold beside him, and Dean looks anything but pleased by this.

“Sorry, he sort of came in and annexed,” Castiel stretches his arms behind him. The stench of weed is fused to the fibers of his clothes, all nested in his oily hair.

“I’m going to shower,” he decides. “Would you like to join me?”

In the dark, Castiel can see Dean’s cheeks go pink right before he yanks down his pants again.

He follows Castiel so closely, so willingly into the bathroom. While Cas undresses, Dean turns on the water. His muscles ripple under his skin as he squats to pull the plug out of the drain, murmuring something about the tub still smelling like Jo’s bubble bath.

A wave of affection hits as Dean rolls to his feet. Castiel could find his way around this man with his eyes shut, knows him every which way. He could tell him by sound, by touch, by smell and by taste.

Castiel has to do all of those things right now.

“Hey,” Dean chuckles as a pair of arms snakes around his waist. “So, whatever you smoked worked, I guess.”

“It’s lovely,” Castiel hums against Dean’s ear.

“Good buzz?”

“No buzz,” Castiel takes a deep breath, adjusting to press his still soft cock against the back of Dean’s leg. “Just good.”

Dean turns in Castiel’s arms and brings him into a kiss. There’s a faint taste of liquor still lingering on his tongue, but Castiel cleaves to the moment anyway, like it’s bound to fly away just as easily as it came to them.

“Shit,” Dean pulls away, puffing softly against Cas’ lips. “Welcome back, baby.”

Something in the way Dean’s desperation pours off of him has Castiel growling low in his throat. He grabs two strong handfuls of Dean’s ass and grinds their hips together.

“Oh, hell yeah,” Dean grins, hooking a leg around the back of Castiel’s. “Missed you, you frisky bastard.”

Castiel replies by snagging Dean’s lower lip in his teeth.

They’ve been petering out with the sex since Thanksgiving. It’s been a week, Castiel thinks—definitely since before his birthday. Dean’s getting hard against Castiel’s skin, nearly twitching as Cas draws his fingers up his arms.

“Get in the shower,” Castiel commands, delighting in the shiver that rolls up Dean’s spine.

Under the spray of the shower, Castiel feels all the dirt and grime of the last week or so melt off of him. Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair and gives a soft tug, coaxing a moan out of his chest.

He gasps as Dean presses him against the slippery tile wall, and finds himself smiling like a lovesick puppy. Dean grabs the bar of soap and works it into Castiel’s skin: soothing, calming, grounding. He allows Dean to kiss him again, allows him to lick into his mouth and wash his body with big, square hands.

Castiel is completely hard by now, flushed by both need and the steam clinging to his skin. Dean’s slippery hand slides between Castiel’s cheeks, swirling slightly over the quivering ring of muscle so desperate for attention.

“Like my fingers teasing you?” Dean asks.

“About as much as you like asking questions with obvious answers,” Castiel huffs back. Dean responds by nipping Castiel’s chin and sinking to his knees. The stream from the shower head hits Dean directly on the back of the head, but it seems nothing can deter him from grabbing Cas’ cock and swallowing it down with practiced ease.

Castiel can brag all he’d like about how he’s learned his way around Dean, but sometimes it seems like Dean is a Castiel native. There’s no other way that he should be able to make him feel so good.

He whispers things, all sorts of dirty praise about Dean’s mouth, how hungry he must be for his cock, and it sets Dean’s head bobbing faster and faster.

Castiel grips Dean’s soggy hair in his hand and pulls him off of his dark red, shiny erection. Dean locks eyes with Castiel, irises reduced to a razor thin rim of green around lust blown pupils.

“Yes?” he asks, very politely.

Castiel tightens his grip on his hair, “Did you miss sucking my cock?”

Dean swallows, “Yeah.”

“I didn’t hear you,” Castiel tugs Dean’s head back.

“Yeah, I missed sucking your cock,” Dean sticks his tongue out and tries to move his head back towards his previous task. Castiel relinquishes his grip and allows him.

Dean doesn’t waste time on teasing, just swallows Castiel back down and hangs on to his hips for dear life. He has Cas all the way down his throat, his nose buried in the thatch of wiry hairs at the base.

Castiel does not last long like that. It feels all too soon before he’s grasping at the tile wall behind him, trying so, so hard to keep himself quiet. A soft, satisfied moan sounds from Dean as he pulls further back and finishes Castiel off with his hand.

Every muscle goes tight over the crest, toes curling and chest fit to burst with a massive lungful of air. He breathes out and lets it go, spasming into Dean’s mouth and groaning softly under the roar of the shower.

Dean sucks down every last drop, too, lips in a tight seal around the head of Castiel’s erection, like he’s never tasted anything better. He kisses up Castiel’s stomach and over his chest, stopping to suck a bruise into his collarbone.

“Hands against the wall,” he commands then. Dean looks up at him, their lips inches apart, noses nearly touching, and Castiel says again, “Up against the wall.”

Dean moans softly and complies, bracing his forearms on the tile. Castiel lines up behind him, pressing their bodies flush and reaching around to take Dean in his hand.

“Oh fuck, baby,” Dean keens, lolling his head forward onto the tile.

“Stay still,” Castiel kisses the base of his neck, and licks a long trail down the musculature of Dean’s shoulders and back.

He ends in a kneel, eyes absolutely level with Dean’s pink, firm cheeks. Castiel grabs Dean by the hips and pulls him close, grinning into the soft flesh before he nips his teeth over one cheek, then the other.

With both hands, Castiel spreads Dean open wide. His puckered hole twitches at the exposure, and both Dean and Castiel lose their breath at once. Castiel leans forward and licks a long, thick swipe over Dean’s hole. Dean lets out a soft sigh at this, so Castiel does it again.

Unfortunately, this angle is not working for him at all.

“Are you clean?” he asks.

“What?” Dean pants. “Y-yeah, I guess.”

“Good,” Castiel reaches back and turns off the water with an air of finality, instructing Dean to then get out of the shower and lie flat on the bathmat. Not one to go against orders, Dean does as he’s told, and waits in place with all the patience of a rowdy puppy.

“Okay,” Cas sits down between the splay of Dean’s legs and hooks his hands up under his thighs.

“What are you doing?” Dean huffs.

“I need your ass to be more accessible to my tongue,” Castiel explains casually, pulling Dean even closer. This still isn’t working quite as he’d like it to, though, and he gives Dean a perplexed look.

“What now?”

“I’d like to figure this out so I can tongue fuck you into next Tuesday, but it is proving to be more of a challenge than I expected.”

Dean lets out a needy groan, “Goddamn it, if you’re gonna eat me out then eat me out, fuck. Don’t just sit here talking about it like a little shit.”

Frowning, Castiel hoists Dean up further, his body heat radiating and flushing Cas’ face with warmth. Dean may not be as bendy as Castiel, but he never complains, never once says anything but “Fuck yes, please, god Cas, need you.”

Castiel buries his face in Dean, nose against his sac as he drags his tongue over Dean again. Yes, this angle is much more favorable. Dean may be bent in half, but he grips at the bathmat and arches into Castiel’s face.

And Castiel has no intentions outside of worshipping Dean with his tongue. He plies Dean open with long, languid licks, strokes over his sac and hugs him as closely as he possibly can.

He pauses only to say, “Touch yourself… wanna feel you come around my tongue.”

Dean hiccups and wraps a hand around himself, tugging erratically as Castiel licks deeper and deeper inside of him. He can’t help it; he can’t get enough.

Down here it’s pure, concentrated Dean, and Castiel drinks it in like he’s been wandering the desert for forty years. He bathes in the mumbled appreciation, the moans and the whimpers that pour out of Dean’s throat.

He knows he’s got him when Dean arches up on the end of a soft cry, tightening around Castiel’s tongue as come splashes all down his belly.

It truly is an exquisite sight.

Castiel sets Dean back flat on the floor and cleans him up with his tongue. He catches every last drop, so many different tastes in his mouth, all of them so uniquely Dean.

Dean’s fingers thread through Castiel’s hair, “We are never going that long without sex again.”

Castiel snorts into Dean’s soft tummy and kisses every bit of skin he can get his lips on.

“Not on the linoleum again, though,” Dean pants after a few moments, and Castiel looks up.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fuckin’ awesome,” Dean pushes himself up on his elbows and rolls his neck. “Just sayin’, the bathroom floor wasn’t one of our better ideas.”

“Come here,” Castiel opens his arms. Dean scoots over into him, melting like a pat of butter as Castiel’s fingers work into his shoulders and neck. They catch their breath together there on the floor, rise and fall of their chests syncing back together.

Castiel’s eyes slip shut because this.

This is good

This where he belongs.

This is where everything is right.

**  
  
**


End file.
